I am 100 kinds of thankful for my friend Melissa and her endless supply of Diet Cokes.
I am a huge fan of hers. HUGE. And don't even get me started on how much I covet her curly hair. I am practically a heathen.
About once a month, I'll skip my lunch break and instead head to her house for a much-needed Diet Coke break and a little therapy for my soul.
She is always waiting for me, with a baby in one hand and a DC in the other.
And a straw.
Seriously, do friends get any better than this? I think not.
For one hour, we will cram in as much as possible: babies, husbands, lack-of-babies and husbands, shoes, jeans, parents, in-laws, cookies, hair styles, friends, travels and the ongoing process of spiritual refinement. We often cry, we always laugh, sometimes we get a little dramatic, and we promise each other we will do this again as soon as possible.
I love this girl. I love Diet Cokes. And together they are priceless. Well, at least they are for me. She is the one that keeps them in stock. I am sure I owe her a case or seven.